


Lavender Blue

by Lily_Padd_23



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angsty Henry, Attempt at Humor, Boys In Love, But not the super six so don't freak out, Character Death, Comfort, Death, Emotional, Fluff and Angst, Husbands, Love, M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Mentions of Violence, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Book, Post-Canon, Royal Family Dynamics, Tragedy, gay royalty, married, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 23:17:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Padd_23/pseuds/Lily_Padd_23
Summary: It’s a cold day when it happens.





	1. Chapter I

_ November 2023 _  
  


It’s a cold day when it happens. 

Alex Claremont-Diaz-Windsor is curled up in a soft grey sweater of Henry’s that drapes cozily over his palms, tucked on the cold red leather sofa with his laptop, scrolling through Twitter hashtags about the Democratic primary debates while the newest season of Great British Bakeoff plays in the background. He’s trying to catch up to Henry who got ahead of him during his most recent bout of insomnia before Alex joined him here in Driscoll Manor. 

The commanding fortress of chilly stone that dominates over the Welsh countryside has sneakily become Alex’s favorite place to stay when they’re over here. The dark and drafty halls used to depress the shit out of him. But on his third stay here, he found a dusty old library with winding side staircases, stocked almost entirely with old law texts from around the world, leather bound and stiff and full of fascinating words to read late into the night by the huge fireplaces. He’s lost hours in that library. 

But the real charm of the place is how at ease his husband seems here. It’s isolated with a small staff and huge, quiet grounds where Henry will disappear on his horse for the entire morning and reappear looking relaxed and refreshed. Of course there is the fact that before they died, Henry’s parents had loved Driscoll Manor best of all for these very reasons, solitude, nature, and a place to recharge. The longer Alex is a part of the Royal Family, the more he appreciates these things, too.

In his wooly sock feet, Alex shuffles across the icy stone floor to poke at the fire with the big iron stoker, grabbing a thick, green blanket from the fat leather chair on the way back to the couch. He plops down easily and resumes his Twitter scrolling, wiping ash off his glasses and replacing them on his face. He’s trying to get a sense of what exactly happened at the debates last night. He’d usually have watched, but the time difference combined with jet lag made it impossible and ill-advised for him to stay up for them last night. 

At first he was put out about having to miss them just to fly out and help Henry “man the fort,” so to speak, while his brother is on his pre-coronation commonwealth tour. He finds the whole commonwealth tour thing condescending and imperialistic as fuck and is annoyed at how often he and Henry have been expected to uproot their lives and schlep across the pond for appearances. Particularly considering that his sister-in-law, Bea, is at Buckingham Palace preparing for the upcoming Christmas fundraising dinner. 

But since arriving, he’s remembered how nice a break from the bombardment of American election news can be. So he is actually kind of grateful that the new King and Queen are out doing their patronizing display of white savior complexes and speaking softly and carrying big sticks and all that. Because it means he and Henry get a mental pause. Plus some time together without law school and nonprofit responsibilities bearing down quite as heavily. 

Nevertheless, he still likes to be in the loop, so he’s wandered down the internet rabbit hole and is currently scanning Buzzfeed list-cles of the best reaction GIFS from last night’s debate, and feeling disloyal for how hard he’s laughing at a collection called _ 13 Times Holleran Knew He Was Getting His Ass Handed To Him On a Plate. _

Their VP, well, his mom’s VP, is supposed to be a shoe-in for the Democratic nomination. Michael Holleran is experienced, well-known, appealing to everybody. This and he’s a close family friend. He’s the frontrunner, the party’s choice, and who everyone is assuming is supposed to be the safest option. There’s just one pesky problem with that, and she wears fuchsia lipstick and hoop earrings. 

Alicia Carabello Elis is everything Michael Holleran isn’t. She’s young. She’s black. She’s queer. She’s a veteran. She’s only got fifteen years of local government experience from Soil and Water Representative, to City Counsel to Mayor of her small California town compared to Holleran’s decades in Washington. Nora Holleran herself would say that statistically, Mayor Alicia Carabello Elis shouldn’t even be _ on _ a Presidential debate stage. And yet… she keeps steadily climbing her way up the polls with her brilliance, nuanced understanding of the current political climate, ability to cut through the bullshit, and talent for online campaigning to rallying young voters. 

Alicia Carabello Elis is the universe’s ACE in the hole. And Alex isn’t supposed to absolutely fucking adore her. But he totally does. 

It’s nice, he realizes, to be able to read campaign coverage without Nora around. Nora isn’t stupid. She gets it. She knows that her grandfather is a little out of touch and was chosen to balance out what people saw as Ellen Claremont’s faults: he balanced out her youth with age and wisdom, her personal history as a divorced mom of biracial kids with a 50th marriage anniversary while they were campaigning, her Southern charm with a straight-shooting Jersey accent, and most importantly, her femaleness with maleness. Holleran was exactly what the campaign needed to sell his mother to moderate men who didn’t think they were sexist, but really kinda were.

Everyone of Alex’s generation who has paid any attention knows that Holleran isn’t as progressive as the new wave of Democrats. But Nora also loves her grandfather and knows he’s a great man. It’s not that she has a problem with ACE, it’s just that she gets frustrated with some of the coverage. She feels they often take Holleran’s comments out of context or go for an easy dig when there are plenty of legitimate criticisms to be made. She’s not wrong. But Alex still likes laughing at the way his eyes bugged out in startled confusion when Mayor ACE corrected him on his own renewable energy bill.

Looking at the debates, Alex can’t help but feel strange at the thought of one of these four people being in the White House and not his mom. His life has changed immeasurably during the Claremont era. And he’s liked being the First Son. But he likes being Henry’s husband more, and there’s a part of him that’s excited for his mom’s Presidency and his last year of law school to go ahead and finish up so he can have more time to focus on his favorite title. 

Thinking of Henry, he glances up to the corner of his screen to see the time and guesses that his husband will still be out riding for at least another hour. Which he doesn’t mind in the slightest. He loves that Henry is happy and energized here, and it gives him time in the morning to wake up at his own pace. But right now, it’s so cold and the fire is not touching the bone chilling November air that’s filling the massive room, so he could really use some cuddles from his favorite person on whom to latch himself. Like right now. 

He clicks out of Buzzfeed and opens Twitter back up and is surprised to see that in the past twenty or so minutes he’s been away from the site, his brother-in-law’s name has skyrocketed past Holleran’s, Mayor Elis’s, and whatever teen popstar released a music video today to become the number one trending topic. He clicks on the hyperlink and mutters to himself, “What stupid ass thing did you say to an African leader this time, Phillip?”

The pictures that unfold on the screen are so jarring that he slams his laptop shut. He blinks ahead at the television where a plump, rosy-cheeked lady is struggling to mold pastry. 

His ears are ringing.

He opens his laptop and stares at the images in front of him. It looks like clips from an old World War Two movie, fuzzy and far away, but the horror is clear. His hands quiver as he tries to focus on black words on a white screen.

** _FIRST RESPONDERS RUSH TO BRITISH DEPUTY HIGH COMMISSION IN NIGERIA AFTER APPARENT BOMB ATTACK BRINGS DOWN THE BUILDING: KING PHILLIP AND QUEEN MARTHA ARE THOUGHT TO BE INSIDE_ **

“Where’s Henry?!” he shouts for someone, anyone, his shaky voice echoing through the halls as he runs aimlessly, “Someone needs to get Henry!” 

A pair of housemaids were frozen in the hall and he heard himself practically shrieking, _ “I AM NOT FUCKING KIDDING SOMEONE GO GET HENRY RIGHT FUCKING NOW.” _

He is so panicked he doesn’t have time to be cold, and everything is happening so fast he doesn’t have time to process it. 

His fingers are flying to his phone, trying over and over to contact Henry by any means, but when he’s off in the countryside, he rarely has service or even hears his phone when it rings. The next time he looks up a Secret Service agent is in front of him, physically blocking the doorway of the hall and forcefully dragging him back to the side room where he’d been. 

“No one is going anywhere,” the Secret Service agent is bellowing. 

“I swear to God, if I don’t see my husband in the next ten seconds I am going to start throwing things,” Alex cries, squirming out of the tight grip the guy has on his arm. 

“His Royal Highness is being located,” the guy says, manhandling him back to the couch. 

“That needs to be happening a lot fucking faster,” Alex shoots back, letting himself be dropped onto his blanket. 

Two more Secret Service agents appear in the doorway, and Alex yells at them, “Can somebody tell me what the fuck is happening?” 

It’s Amy, who at this point is basically part of the family, who says in that unattached way that somehow also conveys her affection for him, “All communications there are down. You know as much as we do.” 

“How is that possible?” Alex’s tone is staying in a frantic register, “I don’t know anything.”

“Alexander, we have a lot of skills, but getting in touch with people whose communication technology is destroyed is not one of them,” Amy goes on a little softer, “We’re trying everything, okay? But we don’t know who’s in there and who isn’t.”

Alex nods, and Amy is in front of the TV flicking off Netflix and turning on the news as the other two scan the room. The images that blast on the screen are smoky and barely comprehensible. British reporters are shouting over the dust and noise and confusion. Clips of the pristine, round, white building bursting into flames and violent clouds of black smoke are being repeated on the bottom of the screen. Nobody knows what’s happening. 

If his heart is racing faster than the speed of light watching the explosion footage, it goes stone still when the first body is carried out of the rubble. When his organs remember how to keep him breathing, he is able to ask, “Who is it? Who is it? Who is it?” until someone on the screen answers that it’s a High Commission official, a trailblazer for indigenous rights and mother of two. 

The next several minutes are a mix of halting coverage trying to talk about what is happening and what it means and pausing every time it looks like a first responder is about to emerge. As he watches, he’s trying to make a list of everything he knows in his head to keep him from spiraling into the massively terrifying list of everything he doesn’t.

_ One: A bomb went off at a Brittish High Commission _

_ Two: The King and Queen were inside when it happened _

_ Three: The first responders have not been able to find them for nearly an hour _

_ Four: Henry is next in line for the throne _

_ Five: Henry is not here _

Several members of the royal staff have huddled around the couch to watch as an overwhelming number of bodies are brought out next: those whose offices were on the top floor. The few survivors are in critical condition, unlikely to make it to the hospital. He’s taking long, shaky breaths. Very out of protocol, Amy is squeezing his hand.

It abruptly occurs to him to ask about his own family in DC, and he’s assured that they’re fine. It’s just after three in the morning there, which is the only reason his phone hasn’t been exploding with worried calls and texts. They’ll be woken up soon, and he’ll deal with that. But he can’t think about anybody else before he gets to Henry. 

A gut-wrenching sob from onscreen pulls his attention back to the TV. He closes his eyes. That kind of wail is one he’s only heard once before and right now, and all he can think of is that video of Robert Kennedy telling the crowd that MLK was shot. Fighting back tears, a reporter grimly announces that the bodies of King Phillip and Queen Martha are being carried from the burning rubble.

With a disgusting clarity, he thinks to himself that they’ll play this clip forever.

There’s a shattering silence, and he can’t tell if no one is making noise or if he’s stopped hearing it. He’s feeling the panic-- more than panic, there just isn’t a word-- bubbling up in him but he can’t tell if he’s moving or what is happening or whose strong grip is on each of his wrists. 

Everything is in slow motion. 

It may be in poor taste but the only analogy he can think of is that the explosions and ruins he’s been watching on the screen may as well be a live broadcast of his insides.

Like an emergency break, it all goes away and he comes careening back to reality only when his eyes finally lock with Henry’s. 

Henry is standing in the doorway now, still in his riding gear and thick olive coat, his eyes wide with fear but glazed over with a bitter numbness and resignation. His skin is flat and colorless like the snow caught in his hair and on his scarf. All at once he looks like the embodiment of exhaustion and having lived through too much in the grey beneath his eyes and like his childhood photos, frozen, stark, helpless, and utterly petrified. 

Henry’s surrounded by his PPOs who have brought him here unceremoniously into safety and have at once begun to confer with the staff and Secret Service agents. But Henry is rigid, looking like he needs to fall over but even that would take too much out of him. 

Alex is on his feet and bursting towards his husband, holding his motionless frame as if for dear life, not sure exactly what he's saying over and over, but it’s something like Henry’s name.

When someone addresses them, it’s to tell them to get ready to get on the helicopter back to London. Ready is being used loosely. They may let Henry change out of his riding boots. And let Alex put on pants. Alex’s face is pressed into Henry’s chest even lower than usual due to his being in socks and the heels of Henry’s boots. Everyone is shuffling around them in a blurry frenzy, but neither of them move, fixed to the spot on the ice cold floor. Alex feels Henry’s heart beat under his cheek and it’s the only thing that is keeping him steady.

All Henry manages to do is croak out a stony “thank you” when staff begins to excuse themselves. 

And a grave voice behind them replies, “God save the King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naturally these characters don't belong to me.
> 
> In my heart, all I want is for them to get married and spend their quiet lives in Brooklyn being incredible activists. But this idea came to me and I had to give it spin.
> 
> It's a work in progress, but I have it planned in my head, just not written down. I can't promise when I'll post or if it will remotely consistent, but hopefully you'll enjoy following along with my What Would Happen If Henry Has To Assume the Throne story.
> 
> Find me on Twitter at @Lily_Padd_23 and Tumblr: lilypadd23 to request one shots!


	2. Chapter II

Before Alex has registered that his feet are back on land, Bea’s arms are around him, constricting both him and Henry to her. Once a few long, pained moments have past, he manages to pull himself away to answer the buzzing phone in his pocket. As he answers with his right hand, his left hand is just now starting to get feeling and color back after Henry held it so tight on the ride over that it cut off all his circulation. 

His voice is hoarse when he answers, “June,”

“Oh thank God,” she replies through choked tears, “Alex, I love you so much.”

His sister’s voice is like taking a shot of something strong that warms him from the inside on a freezing day. She is just instant comfort. 

He looks back over at his husband and sister-in-law, wrapped around each other, silent fortresses for the other to collapse into, and unable to cry, and he realizes that they are the only family they have now. First their dad when they were kids, then their mom and grandmother within a year of each other. Now this. And this is so much bigger than anything else. They’ve had to do this too much that their bodies just shut down. Death has been a constant for them. Death and each other.

“I love you, too, Bug,” he sobs. 

“We’re on our way,” she says. 

“Mom?” he asks feebly, though even as he’s asking it he knows that’s impossible.

“Not yet, but soon,” she assured him, but he doesn’t feel any better, “She has to do all the stuff she’d have to do if this happened and her kid wasn’t the Duke of Wales before she can come be the mother of the Duke of Wales.”

“Yeah.” 

“But as soon as you are able to call her, she said she’d step out of whatever she’s in, okay?” He wants her to be here. He wants her to be here now. “And then soon, okay? She’ll be here soon.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you…” he can hear her cringe at herself as she asks, “okay?”

He says, “I don’t know how to answer that,” because he doesn’t.

“I don’t know why I asked it,” she says. They fall into silence, neither wanting to hang up, but both knowing there’s nothing to say. 

“Okay,” he finally exhales shakily, “Okay, I should y’know… go be…”

“Of course,” she sniffs, “Of course. We’ll be there soon. I just… I love you both so much.”

“I love you, too.” 

The static fuzz where her voice was seems deafeningly loud, though he knows it’s not. He looks around for Henry, and he’s already being rushed away by people in black. 

“Hey!!” Alex calls breaking into a run to catch up, “Where are you taking him?!”

“He has to be briefed,” someone replies and Henry turns to make eye contact with Alex over his shoulder. 

“Right now?!” Alex’s voice is high-pitched and pitiful, “Can’t he have just, like, fifteen minutes to, I don’t know… be a person whose brother died?”

Henry says, “No,” and he’s dragged away.

_____

Alex isn’t entirely sure how long he’s been asleep in their room when June finds him wrapped in a burgundy and gold comforter. But the sun is still streaking through the ornate curtains that Henry hates as he tries to pull himself up to her, but she’s flopped on the bed beside him, her face streaming with tears stains, and pulls him against her shoulder. 

“What day is it?” he mutters.

“Same day,” June tells him, “We just got here.”

“Where’s Henry?”

“I don’t know, but he’ll be here as soon as he can, okay?” June strokes a sweaty curl out from Alex’s forehead, and he realizes he probably smells terrible. 

Nora trails in after June with bags of potato chips and fruit and water. They make him get something on his stomach to pop a Xanax, take a shower, and get on some fresh clothes. It's an old Diaz for Senate sweatshirt June brought. It still smells a bit like home. Then the three of them pile on top of each other in bed and alternate between Alex’s demands that the news be turned on and that it be changed to anything else. He can’t focus on any of it, though. All he can think of is Henry’s face. He can’t even let himself think about what their life will be now that Henry’s the… no, all he can think about is his husband’s face and holding it in his hands and telling him they’ll be okay. No matter what their lives will be.

Ellen FaceTimes a few hours after June and Nora got there. He cries. She comforts him. He asks questions. She doesn’t answer them. He cries some more. She tells him she loves him, and she’s rushed back to the situation room. 

There’s a pit in his stomach that feels like it may as well be the bottom of the ocean. This was always a possibility. But the same way it’s possible for Yellowstone to erupt while you’re visiting the park. Or possible for Mayor Elis to become POTUS. Or possible that you’d get eaten by a shark in a public pool. It wasn’t something that was_ never _ going to happen.

But the tumor they found on Princess Catherine’s brain was_ never _ going to be anything other than benign. It was _ never _ going to spread. It was _ never _ going to kill her a year after she’d come back swinging for Alex and Henry to be accepted by Queen Mary. Queen Mary was _ never _ going to die-- no matter how peacefully in her sleep-- only a few months after that. Martha was _ never _ going to struggle to get pregnant. Phillip and Martha were _ never _ going to be killed by an unexpected act of terror. 

So yeah, “never going to happen” has gained a new meaning to Alex. And that new meaning is “probably going to happen.”

“Earth to the Queen of England,” Nora snaps her fingers in front of his face. He lets out a sniffly giggle and wipes his nose. 

“What the _ fuck?” _ he sighs, “I mean, what the _ actual fucking fuck?!” _

“What even is your title now?” June asks.

“Hell if I know,” Alex drags his hands across his face, “I barely even got the title I have now.” 

It’s true. Henry had spent the nearly the entirety of their early marriage fighting Queen Mary and then his brother about changing the laws to recognize same-sex spouses of royals the same way opposite-sex spouses were. Granting Alex a title had, in fact, been one of the last things Phillip did before the commonwealth tour. 

It isn’t something Alex _ actually _ cared about. Like his husband, he thinks the monarchy is pretty gross. A net negative on the world with its head up its ass. But nothing makes Alex want something more than being told he can’t do it. And even more than that, not having his marriage treated the same as if Henry had married a woman wasn’t fair, no matter how archaic the title thing was. Now that he _ has _ the title, he never takes it for granted. If the only legacy he ever leaves is that a queer, brown man can be royalty, that was a damn good legacy.

Everything’s different now. 

He blinks his eyes and presses the heels of his palms against them so hard he sees fizzy stars. It all feels so huge. Huger than huge. It’s too much. _ It’s too much. _

He needs a drink. Or two. 

_____

It’s not until well after midnight that Henry is finally back in Alex’s arms. June and Nora have long ago retreated to their rooms after helping Alex get through a bottle of wine. Okay. Two bottles of wine. 

Okay three. 

Henry collapses into Alex’s chest and just shakes. 

“Shh, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here,” Alex whispers pointlessly, rubbing his back and gripping him so tight. 

Henry’s body just breaks against his, and he lets out a sob into Alex’s sweatshirt.

“Oh, Henry.” 

“I don’t want this,” Henry shudders through wretched tears, and Alex might throw up, “I don’t want this.” 

“I know, baby, I know,” Alex sniffs, “I’m here, I’m here.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Henry sobs, “I’m so sorry, Alex, I never imagined you’d have to go through this. I never imagined I’d have to put you through this.” 

“Shh shhh stop it, stop it,” Alex pulls him closer against him, “I’d ascend to a thousand thrones for you.” 

A sad, stiff chuckle comes from Henry’s chest, and Alex wraps his legs around Henry’s torso, gripping the back of his shirt. As big and huge and terrible as this had felt all day, it was unimaginably more so for Henry. And it’s only going to get harder. 

“Everything we planned…” Henry whispers “Our Brownstone. Law school. Your career…”

“Baby, we don’t have to talk about that right now,” Alex kisses his hair, “Let’s get you more comfortable. 

Alex delicately washes him, dresses him, and curls him back up in bed, running his hand through the damp hair, pressing kisses on his pink cheeks. They don’t sleep until about five o’clock in the morning. They just hold each other and whisper and cry a little. 

They’re woken up barely two hours later. Henry is shuffled away too quickly. And he’s alone again too quickly. And now he is thinking about the Brownstone and law school and his career.

Running for Congress became out of the question the minute they got married. The minute they got engaged. But he’s stopped wanting that, anyway. The life he pictured for himself after Henry is cozily gallivanting between their Brownstone and these places here, working together at the nonprofit, Henry working behind the scenes like he had been, Alex providing legal counsel and dazzling press at fundraising events. Maybe kids one day. 

He doesn’t know what to picture now. 

Well, that’s bullshit. 

He knows exactly what to picture. He simply can’t bring himself to do it. 

No room for anything but this. Buckingham Palace. Stuffy Buckingham Palace. A life where their every move is broadcast. Where they can’t escape to Brooklyn when the monarchy feels too heavy. Kids would be mandatory. And soon. It wasn’t that he didn’t want them, it’s just that he wanted more time the two of them. Time to be husbands. Time to be together.

But now here lying flat on his back, his face covered in Jaffa Cake crumbs (they’ve grown on him), he can’t imagine how he fits into this. How he and Henry fit into this as a couple. The little life they’ve begun carving out for themselves from all this gold and marble seems now to be behind glass. 

_____

The next few weeks go by in a strange kind of slow-motion blur. Paperwork, speeches, being pushed around from place to place, little to no sleep most nights. Barely any time with Henry. All he wants is to comfort his husband, and that seems to be the last thing anyone wants to make time for him to do. 

Then there’s the funeral, which is maudlin and huge and long, and Henry is so exhausted and drawn and just _ sad _ that he can barely cry, he can barely speak. Alex does most of the talking. 

When he kisses Alex goodnight, Henry seems like he’s trying to kiss away the day. He’s white-knuckling Alex’s upper arms, and his brows are twisted in something like anguish. 

“Henry?” Alex asks softly when they break apart, “What can I do?”

“I don’t know,” Henry sighs a little, “I’m sorry.”

“If you apologize to me one more time…” Alex raises his eyebrows, and lifts himself to his tiptoes to kiss Henry’s nose. 

“What will you do?” Henry says, “Put me in charge of an Empire?”

Alex chuckles and starts undoing Henry’s tie, “You know…” he says softly, “You’re going to be…” he tugs the tie a little, “The most incredible King.”

Henry exhales sharply and mouths, “Don’t say that.”

“You are, though, baby,” Alex goes on, “You are… brilliant.” He undoes his top button, “You are compassionate.” The next. “You are patient.” The next, “You are a born leader.”

“I’m not,” Henry snorts.

“You are!” Alex protests as the next button comes undone, “You are steady. You listen. You are going to change this whole fucking world.” 

“I can’t…” Henry takes his hands, “I’m not _ you.” _

“You’re _ you,” _ Alex looks deep into the pools of his blue eyes and squeezes his hands, “You don’t have to be anything else to a great King. And more than that.” Alex shifts to place a hand on each of his cheeks, “You’re going to be a _ good _King.” 

Henry sniffs and closes his eyes. A few tears slip onto Alex’s fingers.

“You’re so good, love,” Alex whispers. “You are a good man.” 

With a long breath, Henry presses his forehead into Alex’s and whispers, “I can’t do this without you.”

“You won’t,” Alex promises, “Not for one fucking day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for all the lovely comments on the first chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for coming along on this ride!


	3. Chapter III

_ January 2024 _

“You want me to do_ what now?” _ Alex balks over his breakfast tray.

“You’re going to meet with the royal posture coach to talk about your sitting,” says the under butler who is laying out their clothes for the day.

“That’s what I thought you said,” Alex scrunches his nose and takes a bite of porridge. He could swear he hears Henry giggling. “What?” he snaps.

“Oh nothing, my love,” Henry feigns innocence, pressing his napkin to the corners of his mouth. Alex refrains from punching him because the morning tea is positioned in such a way that it will fall into Alex’s lap if Henry flinches. 

“Did you know about this?” Alex asks, and Henry shrugs, “Did you _ approve _ this?” 

“Sweetheart, honestly, I wouldn’t let them do anything to you I thought would be that bad.” 

_____

“This is some Princess-Diaries-ass bullshit!” Alex cries as the book on top of his head falls to the floor for, like, the fifteenth time, “Don’t you people have like, colonies to placate out of unrest?” 

“That is entirely above my pay grade, sir,” the little posh lady with silver hair says, shoving his shoulders back with a force that shouldn’t be possible for someone of her stature. He’s in a small wooden chair with a seat upholstered in pastel embroidery, and the posture coach has been switching between demonstrating in an identical chair beside him and jabbing him in various places with long fingers.

He lets out a startled groan and stomps his feet in protest, “No wonder you’re all such tight-asses,” he grumbles feeling a pang through his upper back.

“Language!” she pokes his ribs. 

“I’m the Queen of fucking England, I’ll say whatever I goddamn want,” he replies, raises and eyebrow challengingly. 

“Actually, you’re the Duke of fucking Edinburgh,” the voice in the doorway is Bea’s so he turns to see her in a dark green turtle neck sweater and high waisted jeans and kickass black boots. “Your Royal Goddamn Highness,” she genuflects melodramatically. 

Alex laughs heartily for the first time in a while. It’s been a rough few months. Bea has carried him and his husband so diligently. They’d be, and he intends the pun when he thinks it, royally screwed without her.

“That’ll be all for now, Hyacinth,” she waves the woman off, “Leave the books.” 

Hyacinth shuffles away, and Alex watches his sister-in-law as she crosses over to him. She taps his leg where he’s hiked it up into the seat of the chair without realizing. 

“Come on, Claremont-Diaz, you’ve memorized polling districts, passed the LSAT, navigated an international sex scandal, and helped organize strategy that turned Texas blue,” she gingerly places herself in the chair beside him, “This isn’t difficult. You can sit like a human being.”

“I still contend that this is biphobic,” he mutters, letting his foot drop to the floor. 

“Oh, do shut up,” Bea says, modeling the perfect royal posture. She has dark circles under her eyes. This hasn’t been easy for her, either. 

Alex can remember long, late night conversations with his husband in the early days of their relationship about how, if things were different, he would be pushing to abolish the royal succession rule that gender supersedes age for all royals, not just the ones born after a certain year. He thinks Bea on her own would be an amazing Queen. Unconventional, but amazing. But Bea could never be Bea on her own. Bea would always come with her addiction. She’d been sober for years now, but staying sober required a lot more time and energy and effort than a Queen would be able to handle. Being King was hard for Henry, but he had pretty much convinced himself that being Queen would kill Bea.

“What, are _you_ gonna teach me how to sit now?” Alex bends to pick up the book, “I don’t know how you’re supposed to teach me something that someone who does this for a living couldn’t do.”

“Well, I’ve been on the receiving end of this shit long enough to know what actually works and what doesn’t,” she shrugs. 

“So…” Alex turns the book over in his hand, “Not balancing this on my head.”

Bea chuckles and hops back up, crossing to stand behind him. She places a hand on each of his shoulders and starts rubbing circles around the muscles, working tension out of them. Alex lets himself exhale, and he can feel himself slumping lower into the seat at the unexpected comfort from his sister-in-law.

“If you’re trying to get me to sit straight,” he practically purrs, “This is having the opposite effect.”

She laughs again and then moves to stand in front of him, kicking his feet to the proper distance apart of the rug and telling him to plant his feet on the ground. 

“I don’t know what you mean when you tell me to plant my feet on the ground,” he complains. 

“Nothing,” Bea shrugs, “It’s just something we say.” He laughs again, and Bea goes on, “It’s simply to make you think as though the bottoms of your feet have roots growing out of them and into the floor so you can’t help but keep your feet flat.”

“Okay, I get why you say to plant my feet instead of that, because the thought of slowly growing into part of this palace is a dreary metaphor for my life right now.”

Bea chuckles darkly, but says, “You’d made a very nice tree, Alex. I’d make sure to come water you with iced coffee every day.” She must sense his pout because she quickly snaps back into focus, “Alright, brother mine, here’s what you’re going to do.” Alex sits up a little, paying closer attention as his sister-in-law gives a loud, abrupt clap of her hands, “Do you know how Henry sits when he’s doing his reading to relax?”

Alex snickers, “You mean like he’s got a stick so far up his ass it might as well be my…”

_ “Yes,” _ Bea cries, throwing him a look, “Just show me.”

Thinking of his husband buried in Jane Austen, he chuckles fondly, before he opens the book on his lap and lifts his shoulders up and back and says in his intentionally bad Buckingham accent, “Ah yes, this is quite a refreshing read; I feel _ most _ at ease in this present moment. One could discern that I was relaxed from the way my entire body is completely rigid, not unlike the American cinema character, the Tin Man.” 

A snort from Bea prompts him to glance her way. She’s wearing a lovingly amused expression on her face as she says, “You are almost perfect, but your chin is too forward.”

He tips his head back, letting his eyes scan from the book up towards the ceiling. 

“Like this?”

“No, Alex, not like that at all,” Bea scolds, “I didn’t say your chin is too _low,_ I said it was too _forward.”_

He contemplates the physics and imagines his face looks like he’s looking at a complex equation. He’s not sure what he’s done with his head when he asks again, “Like this?”

“You didn’t do anything different,” Bea informs him flatly. 

He rolls his neck and squirms, “Gah, I can’t do it!” he cries, “I feel like a short, brown flamingo.”

Bea sharply grabs his chin with one hand and asks, “What’s the proudest you’ve ever been?” He blinks a few times, startled at her hand on his face and her seemingly out of the blue question. “You don’t have to tell me!” she says, “Just think about it: what’s the proudest you’ve ever been?”

He thinks about Henry coming out to the Queen. And his chin tips up slightly and he feels a small smile on his face. Bea lets her hand drop and says, “There. Just like that.” 

_____

When he gets back to the room that evening, Henry is there. With his book, propped up on the pillows. It’s the first time Henry’s beaten him back, since… yeah. 

“Hey, baby!” Alex’s tone is surprised, like he’s not sure he’s actually seeing him there. 

“Hello, love,” Henry sighs. 

“Why are you here?” he starts tugging off his clothes

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean, you’re here!” Alex cries, “Before me! Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yes,” he folds his book closed and places in on his nightstand, “Things just finished up a bit sooner than usual, is all.”

It's _Persuasion._

“An unexpected surprise!” Alex smiles at him.

“Indeed!”

Alex bounds into the bed beside him, taking his face in his palms and kissing him, wet and dirty. Henry’s hand finds Alex’s arm and squeezes. After a long inhale, they pull apart, and Henry is flushed as he says “Speaking of unexpected surprises!”

They have sex in what’s another first in a while. They’ve gotten each other off a few times since it happened, just relieving the stress from each other’s bodies. But Henry is so drained by the end of the day, that once he’s in bed, it’s usually pretty clear that he needs to sleep. So it’s been a while since they had the time or energy or mood to really concentrate on sex. 

And Henry can’t make up his mind what he wants. What he needs. His life now is such a strange mix of having no control over himself, but unlimited control over others. So he starts off by practically throwing Alex against a wall, and Alex thinks he knows how the night is going to go.

_ “Fuck _ yes,” Alex bites his lip, and Henry is on him, rock hard against his leg and frantically kissing marks onto Alex’s neck until he’s gasping for air. The next minute, Henry’s on his knees, pumping Alex deep into the back of his throat and whimpering, looking up beneath heavy lids. But when Alex pushes him and tries to pin his wrists to the mattress, Henry bucks him off, slamming Alex onto his back and grinding their hips together, tearing off his shirt. 

“What do you need, baby?” Alex lifts towards him involuntarily, his voice breathless “What do you need?” 

“I don’t fucking know,” Henry practically growls, “Just shut up.” 

But within a few minutes, he’s nuzzling against Alex’s ear, petting him so softly and begging, “Talk to me, please, take care of me, I need you.” 

It’s back and forth like this for the better part of an hour, and ends with Henry on his hands and knees, Alex behind him, fucking him so hard they're both screaming their throats raw. A devilish thought blasts behind the back of Alex’s eyelids, and he’s blurting it out hoarsely before he can hold it back, “Son of a bitch, I’m fucking the King of England!” 

When they fall against each other, they’re sweaty and sticky and panting, and Henry looks like he’s about to cry as Alex slides to curl up next to him.

“Are you okay?” Alex whispers, his voice scratchy and small.

Henry nods, but he’s visibly holding back tears. 

“Baby…” Alex breaths against his cheek, running a hand through his hair, “You’re allowed to cry in here.”

“I don’t want to,” Henry says, “I want to just be able to be with without having being with you being… about being out there. I’m not making any sense.” He deflates against Alex’s shoulder. 

“We’ll get the hang of this, sweetheart,” Alex is assuring himself much to himself as to Henry. 

Henry’s breathing is steadier, but still faltering, so Alex says low in his ear, “You just have to promise me you won’t stop doing that thing with your mouth where you… mppphh.” Henry throws a playful punch on Alex’s arm. Alex punches him back, and they’re laughing through messy kisses that only subside when Henry’s head is settling onto Alex’s chest. 

“I love you,” Alex ventures. 

“Would you still have married me if you had known?” Henry asks so softly, at first Alex isn’t sure if he’s misheard. But he knows he didn't. It's a sting. Like cold windy rain in tiny needles against his face. 

“Henry…” Alex sighs, kissing his hair. “When are you going to figure out what you’re worth to me?”

And before too long, they’re back at it, slowly making out, really tender and slow this time. And Henry’s hands are on his back, and Henry’s soft moans are in his ears, and just like that, they’re just them again. The titles they have and the room they’re in… it’s all gone. It’s just Alex and his husband making love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your amazing feedback on the first two chapters. Sorry this one took me so long to get to. I've been in the middle of a move and classes have started up. I'm not sure when I'll have more, but I promise you, I haven't forgotten about this story!


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
First, y’all so generous with your comments. They’ve warmed my little gay heart. Thank you for the love!
> 
> Second, I AM SO SORRY that it has taken me so many months to update. Between navigating a trans-continental move 🌍, a breakup 😢, and my first year of grad school 🤓, I haven’t been able to focus much on writing for fun. But one silver lining of that social-distancing life is that I hopefully will actually be able to finish this now that I have excessive amounts of free time. So thanks for coming back!

_ April 2024 _

  
  


The first morning that actually feels like Spring, of course is when Alex gets a cold. His Texas blood still hasn’t fully adjusted to British winters. Despite Henry reminding him that British Springtime is probably more like Texas wintertime, Alex has been obsessively counting on March to come out like a very warm and sunshiney lamb and bring him some glorious April sunshowers. So he can’t help but feel a touch deflated when he’s awoken by the glowing Spring sun on his face accompanied by sneezing fit to wake the dead. 

And if anywhere was going to be full of ghosts who would be both immeasurably put out about being awoken and well-armed, it would be Buckingham Palace. 

It’s half past noon before Alex and David the Beagle manage to make their way out into the sunlight. With a fistful of tissues and a cup of Chamomile tea, he plops himself down at one of the little garden tables to watch June and Nora suck at badminton. Everyone’s here because Henry gets coronated tomorrow. And theoretically, there’s a shit ton of stuff Alex is supposed to be doing, but that list turned into the single objective of “get better” as soon he woke up unable to stop wheezing. 

“Outside!” Nora cries upon noticing him, giving him a dramatic, accusatory point before the shuttlecock whizzes past her head, “You’re outside!”

“A keen observation!” Alex calls, lowering his tea cup.

“Aren’t you supposed to be inside? Like. Resting?”

“I’m supposed to be getting better,” he responds, “Fresh air is, y’know. Good for the lungs or whatever.” He’s startled by a rib-rattling cough that makes David look up from where he’s sniffing at the grass. 

“That sounds bad, Alex.” June calls from the other side of the net, lifting her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the glare. “You sure you shouldn’t be inside?”

“Oh my god, that is _ so _ four years ago,” Alex says with a raspy throat and an eye roll. June sticks her tongue out at him and turns her attention back to the game. Alex closes his eyes and tips his head back, stretching his feet up to prop them on the chair in front of him. In spite of the head cold, he feels a satisfied smile spread across his face. Aside from the fact that he has the basics pretty thoroughly covered-- married to the love of his life, the health and safety of his family, literally never having to worry about food or shelter or money-- there is more about his daily life now that he actively dislikes than he likes. So he relishes any moments that he could mistake for his old life. He can close his eyes under the same sun that shone on him in Texas, with the same laughter of Nora and June that had always filled his ears, and he can suspend his disbelief far enough to momentarily forget that the tea cup he is holding is a priceless heirloom and the sounds of Nora and June’s laughter are taking place during the world’s most high-security game of badminton on grass that is upkept by a staff of hundreds. He can forget that the reason he is going to see his mom that evening was because his husband is about to be coronated in a ceremony that predates his country of origin by over a thousand years while millions and millions of people watch them officially become the first same-sex monarchs of Great Britian. 

Okay, he can’t forget it for very long. 

He’s jarred back to this life by the distinctive guitar lick he’s set as text tone for his sister-in-law, who is down at Westminster Abbey with Henry for the final run through and has specific instructions not to contact him unless it’s important. 

_ Bea: I know you’re indisposed, but Henry’s having A Thing… and I’ve done my thing, and it’s not helping... _

_ Can you get here? _

_ Alex: What kind of a thing? _

_ Bea: A Henry thing _

_ Nothing out of the ordinary _

_ Idk _

_ I tried, but I think I’m just pissing him off _

_ Alex: oof _

_ Bea: Yeah it’s been a day _

_ My sibling powers are failing _

_ I need reinforcements _

_ Alex: omw _

___

When he gets to the Abbey, he can’t help but be flooded with memories from the wedding. The wedding had been fucking spectacular. It had been gay as hell. They’d worn white tailcoats with gold embroidered details, had Elton fucking John sing Your Song, and ridden off in a carriage that would have put Cinderella’s to shame. They’d spent the next month in Egypt because when they’d talked about honeymoon destinations, Henry had said, “we can go anywhere in the world you wish, my darling,” and Alex had said “I’d suck Ted Cruz’s dick for an authentic Philly cheesesteak right about now,” and Henry had said, “Forget I asked, let’s go to Egypt.” So they’d cruised the Nile and drank sweet hibiscus tea and posed for dorky pictures by the pyramids and held hands in the ancient temples of Luxor while Henry listed all the ancient Egyptians who were probably defenitely queer. And then they’d gone home to Brooklyn to start what was supposed to be their married life as reclusive royals who quietly helped homeless youth and showed up at fancy parties a few times a year just to flaunt their same-sex, mixed-race love in everybody’s scone-stuffed faces before disappearing to their realitive privacy and growing gay history book collection. 

Alex takes as deep a breath as his stuffy nose allows and steps into the foreboding building-- always bracing himself to burst into flames for the first few paces-- flanked by his PPOs to block him from the smatters of paparazzi waiting to catch a glimpse of his husband. Right away, he spots Bea perched in a pew in the back, somehow managing to make fidgeting with a button on her hot pink blazer look elegant.

“Hey!” he half-calls-half-coughs.

She turns, “You look dreadful.”

Alex rolls his eyes and responds, “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m disgusting. What happened?”

“Well, we were almost done, and he was doing fine,” Bea uncrosses and crosses her ankles, “And then I looked over at him during one of the hymns, and he had gone peaky and started giving me the ‘get me the fuck out of here’ signal. So I shut the operation down, and I was trying to talk him through it, make him laugh, and he just sort of closed off and went skulking over to…”

“Poets' Corner,” Alex overlaps with a nod and a sniffle, “Thanks, sis, I’ll see what I can do.” 

He finds Henry standing facing the memorials, hands tucked in the pockets of his pale slacks, the late afternoon sun rays streaking stripes onto the back of the navy blue sweater that hugged his broad shoulders, his neck tipped towards the lofty statues. Tucked away back here, there’s no noise but Alex’s footsteps on the cold stones.

“May I join you in your brooding, your majesty?” Alex asks as he approaches his husband. 

Henry turns his head to see him and gives him a soft smile, partly because of his teasing and partly because of how Alex’s congestion turned his Ms into Bs. The sun looms almost like a halo around Henry’s soft blonde hair, and Alex is struck for a moment by just how fucking in love with this man he still is. They stand shoulder to shoulder for a long silence, feeling both the sun and the profound sense of being amongst legends

“I almost wish... ” Henry finally recites, “ ...we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days; three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.”

Alex squints his eyes straight ahead, “Shelley?”

“Keats.” Henry’s gaze flickers upward to where Keats’ name is carved in a round slab by an intricate garland, “You know what else he said?” 

“Hmm?”

“Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced,” Henry says softly. 

Alex turns to look at him and sees his eyes have gone misty, “Oh, baby,” he whispers.

“In my head, I’d been able to convince myself that it was temporary,” Henry goes on, teary eyes still locked on the memorial tablet for John Keats, “That I’ve just been filling in and Phillip will come back soon.” His voice breaks over his brother’s name, and Alex instinctively reaches a hand towards him. “But today… with the music and the crown and the… it was the first time it felt real.” 

Tugging on his sleeve, Alex manages to withdraw Henry’s hand and interlace their fingers together. He doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just listens. 

“Keats also wrote,” Henry says, “Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?”

“That’s beautiful,” Alex replies.

“That’s bollocks,” Henry scoffs, “Sorry, Johnny, that’s bollocks. It’s not the sadness that teaches us what it means to be alive, it’s not the suffering, it’s not the pain, it’s not the death. It’s the joy that we’re able to find in spite of it. It’s the beauty. It’s the meaning. It’s the love. I’m so _ tired _ … I’m so tired of being told by poets and philosophers and psychologists that I have to feel pain in order to understand joy. Does that mean that the people out there who have to live on less than a pound a day should be glad because they teach me to be thankful for my lot? Is what they teach me their only value? Does that mean that…. Does that mean that I’m supposed to think that the value of the lives of my family can be reduced to the lessons that grieving them has taught me? That’s bullshit. That’s _ bullshit, _ and I’m tired of being told I should be grateful for the grief because it makes the happiness better. I want people to stop killing my family. That’s what I’d be grateful for.” 

“Henry…”

“Every single relation I’ve lost would be better at this than I am,” he continues. His voice is somehow completely steady and quiet, but with a rising urgent anger behind it as he wipes a stray tear, “Every single relation I’ve lost was more prepared for this life than I, was better suited than I. If I had to be buried in this building, I would have liked to have been buried here,” he gestures around them, “I want to be remembered for what I did, not what my bloodline was. And all of them… all of them could represent that so well. And I detest it. I detest it, but I’m going to learn how to do it, and I’m going to do the best I can, but am I supposed to be… glad for the pain and the suffering because it taught me how to be the person I’m supposed to be? That’s not worth it. That’s not _ worth _ it. I’d rather not know.” He throws his hands up now, pacing past from Alex, “I need some air,” he chokes out. 

“High above the city,” Alex calls after him, scratching his throat, “On a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince.”

Henry pauses in his tracks and turns back to look at him, cocking his head, “That’s not John Keats.” 

“Oscar Wilde!” Alex grins, raising a finger, “ ‘Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?’ asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. ‘The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.’ ”

“I am glad there is someone in the world who is quite happy,” Henry picks up. 

“Who are you?” Alex jumps ahead with his eyes narrowed, straining to remember the text that Henry has read to him time and time again. He begins to take slow deliberate steps towards his husband. 

Henry sighs, “I am the Happy Prince.”

“Why are you weeping then?”

“I had…” Henry swallows a lump in his throat, “I had a human heart.”

Alex closes the space between them by reaching for both of Henry’s hands with his, looking down at the contrast of his dark skin and Henry’s light, the contrast of their shadowed hands and glinting wedding bands. 

“Tragedies happen, babe, sacrifices are made,” Alex says softly, “Just like in the story. It’s not fair. It’s life. But it’s not fair. And your grief is part of living, too. You don’t have to qualify any of it. You don’t have to quantify any of it, either. You just live it, okay? You get to take as long as you need to grieve. And you get to be happy, too. And you get to be scared. And you get to be all of those things at once. But you don’t get to be mean to my husband. Because I love him. And he’s just a person. Just a person doing his best, and his best is pretty damn good.”

Henry lets out a shaky exhale and dips down to place his forehead on Alex’s, “I just wish I knew how to turn it all off so I could do this right.” 

“You can’t turn it all off, sweetheart,” Alex cups his face with both hands, “It’s no good trying. The fact that you _ feel? _ The fact that you _ care? _ Means you’re doing it right.”

Henry closes his eyes and nods, tipping his cheek into Alex’s palm. He goes to kiss him, but they’re interrupted when Bea calls out from the threshold, “Oh sure, go ahead, get him sick, too, Claremont-Diaz. Not like he has anything important on the schedule tomorrow or anything.”

They break apart, chuckling lightly, but still squeezing hands. 

“What say you to some tea?” Bea asks. 

“Most definitely!” Henry gives Alex’s hand a final squeeze and strides ahead of him, patting Bea’s shoulder as he passes her. 

When Alex is beside her in the doorway, she raises her eyebrows questioningly, and he offers quietly, “Shit’s getting real, survivor’s guilt, guilt about the feelings he’s having, guilt about the feelings he’s not having, guilt that he can’t stop the feelings he’s having. Classic Henry.” Bea gives a knowing nod and links arms with him. “He’ll be okay.” Alex adds, and they follow Henry to the car. 

____

The coronation is exquisite. It’s terrifying, but they get through it. Alex doesn’t have to do much, and he really doesn’t have any lines or anything, which is good because he is feeling pretty much normal, but there’s still a tickle in his throat. Of everyone who is part of the choreography of the day, his job is pretty simple. Just follow some blocking and keep Henry steady, making him smile when his back is turned, pressing an anchoring touch to the back of his hand. Henry is absolutely breathtakingly beautiful. He looks like Oscar Wilde’s Happy Prince, “gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires.” Like he’s carved out of marble, like a walking Renaissance portrait, like a dazzling Shakesperian hero. Like his husband. Like his beautiful, beautiful boy. Like the boy in the magazine who made his palms sweaty. 

After the whole day of pageantry, Alex is relieved to have a quiet midnight snack in solitude-- Henry was out like a light the minute his head hit the pillow-- when he gets a text from Ellen. 

_ Mom: Bring your old lady a Guiness? _

When he gets to the yellow suite named after one of the King Leopolds where US Presidents have traditionally stayed, his mom is on one of the stiff love seats clad in her striped pajamas, a thick binder folded across her lap. Her hair is back in a cloth headband and her feet are tucked underneath her. 

“Hey, kiddo,” she smiles, and he passes her the can, plopping down in a chair across from her and popping open his own IPA, “How ya doin’?”

He nods automatically, taking a long sip before saying, “He’s okay. Asleep now. It’ll do him good to have some rest.”

“Okay,” Ellen furrows her brow, “You know I’m a big fan of the King, but I didn’t ask how Henry’s doing.” 

Alex blinks for a moment before letting out a low laugh, “Mom…”

“I just want to make sure that in all the comotion…”

“Yes, mom…”

“...that you don’t forget that you exist as a person outside of him, too.”

“Yes mom!” Alex repeats, “I know. I know how that sounded, and I’m not… I’m fine. I’m good.” Ellen doesn’t respond verbally, but rather with arched eyebrows and a sip of her Guinness. “But mom, I have made peace with the fact that I’m a supporting character.”

Ellen abruptly stops her sip, swallows quickly, shaking her free hand and saying, “No, no…”

“Mom…” Alex sighs.

“Don’t say that, honey, cause you aren’t!” she says.

“I am, mom, and that’s okay!”

“Don’t say that…” she proceeds with very pointed look, holding a finger up at her son, “Don’t say that you are a supporting character, because then you’ll start treating yourself like one.” 

“I’m not going to do that, _ mom,” _ Alex says, “My ego is way too big.” 

“Honey, I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I!” Alex says, “I’m fully aware that I ‘exist outside of Henry,’ or whatever you said, but I’m also fully aware, that in the grand scheme of things, I’m here _for_ him. He is the axis. And I’m proud that I get to spend my life supporting him. That’s what I signed up for.”

“You’re not just here for him, Diaz,” Ellen protests, “You can’t make your whole life about somebody else.”

“Everyone in this palace has made their whole life about him, mom,” he deadpans, raising his beer to his lips, “That’s the gig.”

“Stop changing the subject!” she slams her binder shut. Alex starts. “Your life has its own purpose.”

“Yes,” Alex nods, “And my purpose is Henry.” Ellen lets out a labored sigh before looking him up and down. _“What?!” _

“Isn’t that putting a lot of pressure on him?” she says finally. 

Alex opens and closes his mouth and then takes another sip, “You’re giving me a headache.” 

“You’ve got to give yourself another reason to get out of bed in the morning, honey,” Ellen instructs, “Something that would keep you going with or without him. It’s not going to help either of you if you don’t get to be your own person.” 

Shifting to throw one of his legs over the armrest, Alex groans, “You’re right.”

“I always am.”

A silence falls as the both indulge in long sips of their drinks. Ellen opens her binder and begins reading again, and Alex watches her closely, staring at the lines on her forehead. 

“So what do I do?”

Only partially paying attention to him anymore, she offers, “I dunno, baby, that’s your part.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was worth the wait and continues to live up to your expectations! Full disclosure, it’s been a long time since I read the book, and I tragically left it behind the last time I visited home. But as I’m finishing up this story, I’m so happy to take one-shot requests for these characters or my other fandoms to give myself more to fill the covid-void Find me on Tumblr: lilypadd23 or Twitter: @Lily_Padd_23


	5. Chapter V

_ November 2024 _

  
  


“That,” comes Henry’s voice from the little doorway, “Is just not fair.” 

Alex grins to himself against where his arms are folded beneath his head, not opening his eyes as he feels his husband’s gaze travel along his sunbathing body. 

“You could always come join me, darling,” Alex teases. He feels movement and Henry’s shadow fall over him and then soft hands firmly massaging his calves, working their way up to his thighs. Letting out a low moan, he melts under Henry’s touch as his hands move to the small of his back before running a piano-player’s finger up his spine. Alex shudders and rolls over lazily, blinking his eyes open against the afternoon Australian sun and instantly bursts into laughter at the sight of his husband in a huge sun hat with a square of sunblock on his nose. 

“Henry, baby, no…” he squeaks through laughter. Henry pulls a face, and Alex goes on, “You have never been whiter than you are in this very moment.” Now Henry is giggling as Alex adds, “And I’ve seen you drunk lip-synch to Beyoncé and forget the words while eating an actual literal_ crumpet.” _

Henry laughs in a way that Alex hasn’t seen in a long time, sending a fleet of butterflies to attack his stomach as he watches his husband adjust to lie back on his elbows and look out over the water, a content smile on his face. It’s moments like these, on their own private ship floating off the coast of Cape York that he feels guilty for ever having complained about his lot in life as a member of the Royal Family. His therapist, a sweet salt-and-pepper-haired gay man who immigrated to London from Nepal and talks a lot about breathing and self and unhooking from what is out of one’s control, is helping him make peace with the nuances of privilege and interpersonal struggles, but days like this make it hard to not feel like the daily lack of personal agency seem like a small price to pay to spend his life traveling the world and attempting to make a difference in people’s lives alongside his husband. 

This was one of those times. After pulling several all-nighters together, maps and reports and speeches littered across their decadent bedspread, Alex and Henry managed to successfully rebrand the commonwealth tour as an environmental fact-finding trip, still delivering speeches with a little less pomp and circumstance, all leading back to themes of protecting the planet, spending their days in meetings listening to community leaders talk about what the environmental work they were doing, the obstacles they were facing, and where they needed funding. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it was better than two rich monarchs gallivanting around and telling their colonies how to be less poor or whatever they were supposed to do originally. In all their planning, Bea had strongarmed them into a few days of downtime between big travel days, including this little excursion that had started with snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef, an unsuccessful whale watching day, and they were now waiting to embark on the next leg of their journey via boat with some representatives from the Thurnberg Organization who had yet to arrive. So they were just floating today with nothing to do. At first this had made them both antsy, but by mid afternoon, Alex had begun to relish a sunbath and the sight that is Henry in a state of both partial undress and relaxation. 

As if reading Alex’s thoughts, Henry breaks the silence saying, “I like this part,” more to himself than out loud. But, closing his eyes, Alex shifts to lie back down on his towel, the sun on his face and agrees, “Me, too, babe.”

Alex thinks about everything they’d done in Australia alone, the way Henry’s eyes had lit up when the marine biologists had shown them slides of the new species of fish they’d been able to bring back from the brink of extinction. He thinks of the way his brow had furrowed in concentration as one of the indigenous leaders had demonstrated their sustainable water filtration system. He thinks of the tender wonder and awe on Henry’s face as they stood, hand-in-hand on a moonlit beach as a nest of baby turtles followed the moonbeams to the sea, Henry’s eyes glassing over, moved speechless beneath the dull light of his headlamp. He thinks of the children at local primary school that had started their own anti-pollution campaign to help clean up the beaches and how the delight in their eyes when looking up at the King was matched only by the way Henry looked back down at them. He thinks of a few nights ago, trying to get Henry to sleep with a cup of warm milk and rubbing his hair, but his husband had been so excited about the statistics on reef biodiversity that he hadn’t been able to calm down. He definitely likes this part, too.

After a while, he pries his eyes open and lets them scan Henry’s long figure, warm and pink from too much sun, dapples of freckles across his broad shoulders, perfect legs stretched out in front of him, crossed elegantly at the ankles and his head gently tilted back, blonde-tipped lashes fanned across red cheeks, chest rising and falling with languid breaths.

“Hey,” Alex catches himself off guard with the low, pointed tone in his voice. Henry’s ears perk and his eyes flutter open and wide, knowing too well what Alex is about to say. He doesn’t even end up having to say it with more than a raised eyebrow before they’re gathering themselves up and scampering back into the little bedroom, Alex’s thumb in the waistband of Henry’s trunks. 

Once behind their closed door, they strip each other clean of swimwear and sun cream, and Henry leans against the door, gently coaxing Alex into crowding into him, making himself smaller as a hand sneaks to Alex’s lap. A light moan escapes Alex’s lips, but he shakes his head and pulls Henry towards the bed by his hips, “C’mon baby, no, let me… I want to worship you a little.” 

Henry gives him a perplexed look, but lets himself be gently spread backwards on the crisp white duvet as Alex takes him in, awestruck at the strawberries-and-cream skin and pensive blue eyes watching as he crawls towards him. 

“Shh,” Alex murmurs, “Let me service you.”

“Alex, you don’t have to…” Henry’s voice cracks as Alex takes his earlobe between his lips.

“Let me,” the whisper of Alex’s breath on Henry’s skin sends a shiver through his body that Alex chases with his tongue, “Just let me.” 

He brings Henry to climax slowly and reverently as the sun moves between the blinds, leaving kisses and touches in all the spots that make him sigh against the pillows. Henry has tears in his eyes and endearments on his smiling lips when he finishes, and Alex quickly climbs up beside him, wiping his mouth and tucking into his spot next to his husband, watching him with quiet stars in his eyes. Henry catches his breath, he turns his head on the pillow to look at Alex, muttering, “That was…” 

Alex just smiles at him and reaches to dab a drop from the corner of Henry’s eye and card Henry’s soft blonde hair out of his face. Henry hums and moves so he is mirroring Alex on his side, eye-to-eye just a few inches apart. After a few long, low breaths together, Henry, cups Alex’s cheek and draws him in for a long kiss and Alex shakily exhales through his nose as he kisses him back, feeling something overwhelming tying knots in his stomach as Henry moves his kisses to Alex’s neck.

“My turn,” Henry is whispering between nibbles of Alex’s skin, but Alex shakes his head, placing a palm on Henry’s chest, trying to laugh it off. 

“No, baby, no it’s okay,” Alex says breathlessly. Henry continues his downward trajectory, so Alex puts a little bit of pressure behind his touch, and says, “Henry, no, really, I'm good.” 

“I want to,” Henry persists, “I _ like _ to. I love to. I love loving you, remember?” 

They’d had this conversation months ago, Alex self-consciously tugging at the sleeves of his robe, looking at his hands and they sat on the bed, Henry’s exquisite face twisted with fear and concern as Alex finally was able to verbalize that he felt guilty taking from him sexually. That he wanted to be the one person, his company the one place Henry could go to where nothing was asked of him. Henry had leapt for him to hold him and Alex had managed not to cry, but he had really had to fight to maintain his composure, grumbling to himself about how even now Henry was having to take care of him. Henry had taken Alex’s face in his hands and said with urgent eye contact, “Alex loving you is the greatest privilege of my life. I love loving you. Loving you is asking nothing of me.” 

Alex had sniffed and rubbed his nose and said, “I know that theoretically, but then I look at you and see how much of yourself you have to give to everyone else, and…” 

Henry had shushed him with a peck on the lips and a half-laughed, “You’re not everyone else, dear, you’re my husband. We are supposed to give and take. Alex, let me be your husband.” Boneless, Alex had collapsed against him and Henry had kissed him and opened his legs for him and held him all night. The next morning he’d nudged Alex into finally calling a therapist. And the day after that he helped Alex sit down and finally follow through on the conversation he’d had with his mother to figure out what he was going to do that had nothing to do with Henry. That’s when he’d decided to expand and re-envision the non-profit and make it into an international foundation that Alex could pour his heart and soul into to fund projects around the world that provided pro bono legal services to homeless and LGBTQ+ youth. It had become Alex’s baby. The second love of his life. They were just getting it off the ground and it was already blossoming into something bigger and more beautiful than Alex ever could have imagined. 

That’s also when they’d decided that, regardless of whether he’d ever be able to do anything with it, he was going to complete his degree with part time course work starting in the Spring semester. He had been making a life for himself within the walls of royalty, and he had springs in his step that had nothing to do with anyone other than himself and work he was doing for the first time in years. That conversation remained a touchstone for them all these months later whenever Alex starts having trouble getting out of his head and remembering himself. Because even with all of that, his favorite part of every day is getting to help Henry turn his role as King into something that gives Henry a spring in _ his _ step. His favorite work is the work they do together. And they were getting the hang of it. Just the two of them. They were turning this life into something that was _ theirs. _

“It’s not that,” Alex assures Henry, rubbing his thumb back and forth where it has landed on Henry’s broad chest, “I just… I think that I just had a realization crystalize in my head… like, it’s been floating around all abstractly for a while now, and I think it just came into view.”

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?” Henry asks, clutching Alex’s hand in his. 

“I don’t want us to have kids,” Alex says the words out loud without any trace of doubt, steadily meeting Henry’s eyes, “Ever. At all.” 

Henry blinks. And Alex lets out another faltering breath before he says, “I mean, I know that we are already flying in the face of everything your family and your lineage expects of you because of who we are and I know you’ve already stuck your neck out way more for me than anyone should ever have to but… I don’t want this to completely change again. We have enough in our life that keeps us from getting to just be a couple, to just be together. I don’t want what we are creating between us to be overhauled again for something we never ever thought of as a ‘for certain’ part of our plan anyway.” 

Despite the feeling like someone is churning butter in his stomach as Henry’s grip tightens on his hand, he plows on, “I mean, and because of who we are, I mean… what are we going to do, bake an heir in a royal uterus as if it wouldn’t be easier to just cut the middle woman and let some other royal baby of some other royal family take over when we’ve kicked it? Or… or… adopt some kid who could have had a perfectly normal life and bring them into all of this? Throw them into the line of succession and deny them a real childhood? Or what if…” he lets out a long, low exhale, “Or what if by the time we’re done we’ll have burned this whole goddamn thing to the ground just like President Elect Ellis is doing back home and so all these outdated systems don’t have to fall on somebody else’s shoulders? What if instead of losing even more of our time on this Earth together to bring in kids that we would obviously love but that we weren’t even sure we wanted in the first place into all of this, we spent our time trying to change all of this? Help set a precedent so that there isn’t a constitutional crisis any time a royal couple wants to make decisions for their own family instead of being treated like an heir factory? What if we did more of this…” he gestures around them at the sea out the window, at the stacks of environmental briefings on the bedside table, “...of making a better future for the next generation instead of just checking off boxes to make things easier for the next generation of monarchs. What if we let the royal family figure out what the royal family is gonna do when we’re gone when we’re gone and try to focus on the bigger legacies that we could leave behind? And fucking focus on each other!” 

Henry smiles at him, his eyebrows doing something Alex can’t quite read, and he’s half-convinced Henry is about to tell him that he’s lost his mind. He’s half-convinced maybe he has lost his mind when Henry finally says softly, “I agree.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

They bask in the silence and the sun for a moment, neither quite sure of what to say until Alex asks, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“How are we gonna…?” Alex starts, “I mean how are we gonna make it work? Who do we have to tell to get the wheels turning? Who’d you talk to about getting me my title? Who do we talk to to make this get approved so we don’t have to have kids?” 

“What if we just don’t?” Henry shrugs. 

“What?”

“What if we just… don’t have kids?” Alex opens and closes his mouth and Henry continues, “We’ll just dodge the question when anyone asks, and any time someone brings it up, we just.. won’t. And then one day we’ll die. ” 

“I… okay.” Alex says. 

“I won’t be the first King to die without an heir,” Henry says darkly, but then cracks a smile and adds, “I mean, what are they going to do, fire me?” 

A warm rush of something like hope and optimism courses through Alex as he laughs and says again, “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Henry kisses him hard before adding, “This is our life. It may not be the life we chose, but it’s ours. And we can make it into something we want to live.” 

Alex practically jumps on Henry, plastering another eager, gleeful kiss on his face, “I love you.” He says, feeling like his whole body is glowing and invisible, floating above the sea. 

“I love you, too,” Henry grins.

“So fucking much.” Alex’s hands are gripping Henry’s face so tight, it’s making Henry laugh. “More than anything. 

“I love you almost as much as I love baby turtles,” Henry teases.

  
Pausing and tipping his head, Alex remarks, “That’s fair.” 

With this, Henry’s arm is around Alex’s waist and he topples him back into the pillows with scatterings of giddy kisses. As the sun warms their skin through the window, and the sea rocks them together with the calm certainty that they’re okay, Alex finally leans back and lets himself be kissed by the man he loves and lets himself think the words over and over, _ this is our life. This is our life. And we can make it into something we want to live. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and your patience as I finished this up! 
> 
> This is as much as I had planned for this story, but I'd be surprised if I never venture back into this world now that I've got it established. I certainly can't see this being the last I play with these beautiful characters as they live rent-free in my head most days even though it has been over a year since I read the book for the first time. (how is that even possible?)
> 
> Anyway! Thank you again for the love!

**Author's Note:**

> Naturally these characters don't belong to me.
> 
> In my heart, all I want is for them to get married and spend their quiet lives in Brooklyn being incredible activists. But this idea came to me and I had to give it spin. 
> 
> It's a work in progress, but I have it planned in my head, just not written down. I can't promise when I'll post or if it will remotely consistent, but hopefully you'll enjoy following along with my What Would Happen If Henry Has To Assume the Throne story. 
> 
> Find me on Twitter at @Lily_Padd_23 and Tumblr: lilypadd23 to request one shots!


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